Back on the Writing Wagon: Tracing the Ink Lines of the Past.
It’s time to write freely again without the irritating restraints of stress and essay-vernacular to hound me! Whooo! There’s something liberating about journaling and so what harm is there in it? So the past week has been ridiculous. I worked myself up into such an irrational and irresponsible stress that I practically ceased functioning mentally and physically. While I wasn’t lethargic in the conventional sense, for my mind was always a blacksmith’s forge burning with some sort of anxiety or another, I was unable to do many things physically. My moods fluctuated between joyous contentment, all consuming anxiety and stagnant melancholy. This affected my work despite using it as an emblem for all my stress, anger and dissatisfaction.
Writing dominates my form of communication. I know I am rather sloppy at it! Indeed, how many grammatical errors and awkwardness in phrasing can you spot? At any rate this means that the way I communicate with others in real life is visually very different. I write emails, I write in the MSN box, I write journal entries, I write essays, I write lecture notes, I write notes at the side of my books… Writing is possibly the most frequent and proactive thing I do everyday. Reading to me plays a somewhat passive role but reading would also be included since every time we write something we are also technically reading it.
Diversion. What did I write exactly a year ago?
I couldn’t find one for the 23rd November but I did for the 24th.
I cannot believe this was so long ago!
RefrACTION
I was walking down the road where an old lady was looking at the flowers in her garden. Pink. Yellow. I felt a little ungainly with my walk and hefty winter overcoat. I might be thinly built but I give the impression of being taller, so I didn't know if she would feel threatened. Instead she said, "how are you?" (so obviously not) I awkwardly replied, "I'm good. Yeah." (looking at flowers also) "Just surviving eh?" Her voice had a dried weariness to it. "Um, yeah, things are good." (nervous laugh) "you?" "Last year I got cancer in my leg. So I'm better, much better." (motions to her shin, where a crater of flesh had been removed). "Ah. Yeah." (more awkwardness on my part) "Don't bother struggling each day. No point. Just enjoy. Live each day." It was a rather morbid exchange of words. We parted with, "Nice talking to you." "Yup. You too."
When I got home I knew a letter was waiting for me concerning my interview at The University Who Shall Not Be Named. I thought to myself, "since I didn't see Philip Pullman yesterday (twice jilted) I shall have my letter from ____." Lo and behold, it was waiting for me. So the previous conversation evaporated and I succumbed to melancholy resignation. How can I go to an interview? Especially from such a demanding university? I am about as articulate and eloquent as a paving stone. People say, "be yourself." However, were we to use the Mad Hatter's, "saying what you mean isn't the same as meaning as you say," we would reach the paradox that I face. Being what I mean isn't the same as meaning what I am. Who am I? Am I the shy, anxious, constantly anxious girl or am I the stubborn, confident, eloquent woman?
The same problems of identity plague me. I wonder what I wrote in 2003?
This is the closest I could find. It was written on the 14th of November 2003.
Is it just me, or is it suspicious that Snape bursts out of a closet, dressed as a woman? It's that charming symbolism of JKR's again. But come to think of it, that is quite a rotten joke of Lupin's, reminiscent again of bullying. He's mocking his masculinity, humiliating him in a 'fun' way in front of students, just as the Marauders would have done. The poor fellow. I wouldn't be surprised if he went away and swore to hate Remus forever and ever and ever.
Busy weekend since tomorrow is the ball and I have much to prepare.
This is quite obviously a return to my obsessive Harry Potter fandom days, particularly concerning Snape, Lupin and slash.
Are there such entries for 2002?
November 17th 2002
My beliefs have changed so much in the past few months and it is frightening me. I feel I am beyond the touch of my being or something constant at least. What is the point in having an identity if you can't keep onto one? I am the same. Externally and Internally. I am frightened to go to London. Not with all these freaky terrorist warnings. It angers me. Grrrr...
I am sick of being weak. I am sick of being everything I hate: indecisive, dithering, inferior, unable to be assertive...
They're all things that hide away. I hate it.
You still have enough time to change your life this evening. I don't know how.
And this was written on the 28th of November 2002:
Dear Sharmin,
You are a perfectly coherent and understanding individual with her own thoughts and ideas. You have been bombarded, left, right and centre with crazy amounts of work and essays. Being the individual of thought, or whatever you want to call it, I see you as having no problem with becoming a computer and machine when it comes to churning out essays. I am sorry - but it must be done - you have to become computerised. In fact, I'll have to dehumanise you. Where will it take you? Ohh... closer to adulthood surely. I'm not being cynical.
Therefore, my advice - as is it to others - DO NOT FEEL anything. Do not feel angry, depressed, spiteful - just think of facts. Facts. Facts. Turn ideas into facts. Become a computer. Write as if you were a mere organiser arranging facts. Nothing. You must not feel a thing.
Yours Sincerely,
Sharmin
Well! There you go. This Sharmin at nineteen. Yet there she also is at 18 and 17 and 16. Apart from the 2003 entry, everything it is deeply concerned with identity or the lack of stable identity. It’s quite amusing how both 2002 Sharmin and 2005 Sharmin must suffer the plight of essays though!
This is an entirely strange journal entry. Yet I must keep writing.
Writing dominates my form of communication. I know I am rather sloppy at it! Indeed, how many grammatical errors and awkwardness in phrasing can you spot? At any rate this means that the way I communicate with others in real life is visually very different. I write emails, I write in the MSN box, I write journal entries, I write essays, I write lecture notes, I write notes at the side of my books… Writing is possibly the most frequent and proactive thing I do everyday. Reading to me plays a somewhat passive role but reading would also be included since every time we write something we are also technically reading it.
Diversion. What did I write exactly a year ago?
I couldn’t find one for the 23rd November but I did for the 24th.
I cannot believe this was so long ago!
RefrACTION
I was walking down the road where an old lady was looking at the flowers in her garden. Pink. Yellow. I felt a little ungainly with my walk and hefty winter overcoat. I might be thinly built but I give the impression of being taller, so I didn't know if she would feel threatened. Instead she said, "how are you?" (so obviously not) I awkwardly replied, "I'm good. Yeah." (looking at flowers also) "Just surviving eh?" Her voice had a dried weariness to it. "Um, yeah, things are good." (nervous laugh) "you?" "Last year I got cancer in my leg. So I'm better, much better." (motions to her shin, where a crater of flesh had been removed). "Ah. Yeah." (more awkwardness on my part) "Don't bother struggling each day. No point. Just enjoy. Live each day." It was a rather morbid exchange of words. We parted with, "Nice talking to you." "Yup. You too."
When I got home I knew a letter was waiting for me concerning my interview at The University Who Shall Not Be Named. I thought to myself, "since I didn't see Philip Pullman yesterday (twice jilted) I shall have my letter from ____." Lo and behold, it was waiting for me. So the previous conversation evaporated and I succumbed to melancholy resignation. How can I go to an interview? Especially from such a demanding university? I am about as articulate and eloquent as a paving stone. People say, "be yourself." However, were we to use the Mad Hatter's, "saying what you mean isn't the same as meaning as you say," we would reach the paradox that I face. Being what I mean isn't the same as meaning what I am. Who am I? Am I the shy, anxious, constantly anxious girl or am I the stubborn, confident, eloquent woman?
The same problems of identity plague me. I wonder what I wrote in 2003?
This is the closest I could find. It was written on the 14th of November 2003.
Is it just me, or is it suspicious that Snape bursts out of a closet, dressed as a woman? It's that charming symbolism of JKR's again. But come to think of it, that is quite a rotten joke of Lupin's, reminiscent again of bullying. He's mocking his masculinity, humiliating him in a 'fun' way in front of students, just as the Marauders would have done. The poor fellow. I wouldn't be surprised if he went away and swore to hate Remus forever and ever and ever.
Busy weekend since tomorrow is the ball and I have much to prepare.
This is quite obviously a return to my obsessive Harry Potter fandom days, particularly concerning Snape, Lupin and slash.
Are there such entries for 2002?
November 17th 2002
My beliefs have changed so much in the past few months and it is frightening me. I feel I am beyond the touch of my being or something constant at least. What is the point in having an identity if you can't keep onto one? I am the same. Externally and Internally. I am frightened to go to London. Not with all these freaky terrorist warnings. It angers me. Grrrr...
I am sick of being weak. I am sick of being everything I hate: indecisive, dithering, inferior, unable to be assertive...
They're all things that hide away. I hate it.
You still have enough time to change your life this evening. I don't know how.
And this was written on the 28th of November 2002:
Dear Sharmin,
You are a perfectly coherent and understanding individual with her own thoughts and ideas. You have been bombarded, left, right and centre with crazy amounts of work and essays. Being the individual of thought, or whatever you want to call it, I see you as having no problem with becoming a computer and machine when it comes to churning out essays. I am sorry - but it must be done - you have to become computerised. In fact, I'll have to dehumanise you. Where will it take you? Ohh... closer to adulthood surely. I'm not being cynical.
Therefore, my advice - as is it to others - DO NOT FEEL anything. Do not feel angry, depressed, spiteful - just think of facts. Facts. Facts. Turn ideas into facts. Become a computer. Write as if you were a mere organiser arranging facts. Nothing. You must not feel a thing.
Yours Sincerely,
Sharmin
Well! There you go. This Sharmin at nineteen. Yet there she also is at 18 and 17 and 16. Apart from the 2003 entry, everything it is deeply concerned with identity or the lack of stable identity. It’s quite amusing how both 2002 Sharmin and 2005 Sharmin must suffer the plight of essays though!
This is an entirely strange journal entry. Yet I must keep writing.